Thursday, October 12, 2017

Touched by Death by T.L. Martin

Touched by Death
T.L. Martin

Genre: New Adult Paranormal Romance

Date of Publication: September 1 2017

ISBN: 9780998395326

Number of pages: 362
Word Count: 105k

Cover Artist: The Killion Group, Inc

Book Description:

What if Death was more tempting than you had ever imagined?

With Grams’s recent passing and a boyfriend who cares more about his next drink than her, Lou Adaire only wants to run. To start over somewhere new — maybe in a town where her family has history.

But when a storm sends Lou’s truck plunging into Tuttle Creek Lake, she discovers exactly what it’s like to fight for your life. To gasp for air only to have your lungs fill with icy water. To die.

What comes next changes everything.

Dark eyes. Consuming presence.

Death. As vague as a dream yet as intense as the lightning flashing above her still heart.

Everything about him calls out to her, tugging at her with the warm vibration of his pull. He’s supposed to take her; they both know it. She wants him to.

When she wakes in the hospital in a new town, she can’t forget what she saw… That impossible sensation of him breathing life back into her, a strong beat playing in her chest and a flutter running down her spine.

Trying to move on with her life in a foreign place is hard enough, but when he comes back for more — his burning touch against her skin, his consuming presence weaving in and out of her life, and his own scars running far deeper than hers — Lou begins to realize there’s more to Death, and to the sleepy Kansas town, than she ever expected to find.

Lou lived. But what if she’s not the only one in need of saving?

*Note to readers: This book contains some profanity, sex, and some scenes featuring child abuse.

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My sweater
chafes my shoulder blade, and I wince as it irritates the raw, tender skin. I
hadn’t thought much about the injury since leaving the hospital, having had
other things to focus on—or focus on avoiding—but now the memory resurfaces in
my mind: rain smacking against the windshield, trees and darkness spinning
around me, the booming crack of my window breaking, and shards of glass flying
at me.
I pull my
sweater off. Eyes closed, I reach an arm across my chest and over my shoulder,
tracing the tips of my fingers along the thick, three-inch cut that hasn’t
quite scarred yet. It’s smooth beneath the stitches. Too smooth, and it feels
foreign; a piece of my body I don’t recognize. I’ve always thought scars were
meant to represent strength; all this one does is remind me that I shouldn’t be
alive right now.
That I’m lost.
My eyelids
flutter open, and my breath catches at the sudden touch of strong, warm fingers
moving over my own. A slow, gentle stroke glides over the wound, but it’s not
from me. It can’t be. My hand is stuck, frozen in place over my shoulder blade
as though not daring to move. The mirror before me proves I’m alone in the
bathroom, and yet, I feel it again, the same presence I felt several nights
ago. Heat radiates behind my body as though someone is standing right there.
Another stroke
caresses the wound, and it’s even lighter this time, like a feather brushing
over me. The feeling of skin against skin is as real as anything. I can almost
hear my heartbeat pounding within my chest. The fingers move past my wound,
never breaking contact with my skin, and slowly trail upward, toward my neck.
Though the texture feels strong and almost rough, the touch itself is
impossibly gentle, treating me like something fragile.
No matter how
loud my mind screams to fight it, my muscles are relaxing like jelly under the
heavy sensation. My uplifted arm drops helplessly to my side. The warm touch
strokes the side of my neck, wandering up further still until it’s almost in my
hair. It’s light enough to send a shiver to my toes, and my eyelids start to
close on their own, my head rolling slightly forward.
The presence behind
me inches closer, and I hear breaths again. Just like the other night, they’re
deep and controlled, right by my ear.
I have no idea
what’s happening to me. Half of me is struck with a pang of fear, unease over
the impossible experience. Yet the other half can’t help but be soothed by the
calming tingles running through the length of me. There’s a trust I can’t
explain, like a gentle, unspoken lullaby, and I know I’m safe. The heat, the
masculine touch, the warm breaths soft as a whisper that rise and fall at the
nape of my neck. I don’t want to think at all right now. I just want to feel.
The caress
slides back down the right side of my neck, almost skimming along my
collarbone, when it stops. Draws back. I hear a hitch in the breathing, a
tremble for a fleeting moment, the smallest hint of the effort it takes to pull
back. Then the touch returns, but only to my scar, traveling down the length of
it with incredible slowness, taking its time. As though savoring every moment
of contact with me, in a way I’ve never experienced. A sigh pours from my lips,
and when my head falls back, it’s caught by the solid warmth behind me. It’s
real enough that I could swear I’m pressed up against the presence right now, a
presence that sure as hell feels like a man—tall, strong, sturdy. The feeling
is so vivid I find myself thinking in terms of him instead of it. 
A shake breaks
his steady breathing again, another warm tremble in my ear, and I feel the
tightness of his body rise and fall with each breath.
I’m letting myself
go, relaxing every part of me until the only thing keeping me upright is his
body, and as I do, the hard curves of muscle tense against my back.
Something in the
air changes, and the presence behind me wavers. It’s completely solid one
moment, and in the next it’s fluid, as though nothing more than a strong breeze
props me up. Soon it’s not even a breeze, just a puff of air, and I’m grabbing
the edge of the counter with both hands to keep from tumbling backward.
My legs wobble,
struggling to support the rest of me. When I catch sight of my reflection now,
my face is flushed. I let out a loud exhale when I remember how to breathe and
command myself to get a grip. I’m still feeling like a sloshy puddle when I
slip my sweater back on over my head and drag myself to the front door of my
room, unlocking it and yanking it open.
I need fresh air
like a drug right now, and I can’t stumble down the stairs fast enough. I hear
Claire’s bubbly greeting when I fly past the front desk, but I don’t stop until
I’m standing on the sidewalk, bending forward with my hands on my knees and
soaking up the crisp winter breeze.
What the hell is
happening? This can’t just be in my head. I know I’ve been a little off since
Grams’s passing, but there’s no way I’d be able to dream up something so
freaking real.
It was here. He
was here.

Whoever he is.

About the Author:

Author of romance and paranormal, T.L. Martin is also a wife, mother of 3, homebody, animal lover, and hug enthusiast. She resides with her family in Southern California.

T.L.'s novels tend to involve the things she enjoys most as a reader: relatable and flawed protagonists, unexpected twists, slow burn romances, and a lively cast of secondary characters. (Being that she writes both young adult and new adult titles, please check individual book descriptions for any content warnings.)

T.L. is presently branching out into new adult contemporary romance!

Join her newsletter by visiting her website.


Interview with T.L. Martin

Where do you get inspiration for your stories? All kinds of places. My own life, observing the lives of others, and especially music.
How did you do research for your book? It depends, but most of the actual fact-finding stuff was done online.
Do you have another profession besides writing? I’m a stay-at-home mom to my three young kids.
If you could go back in time, where would you go? Hmm, I’m torn between the hippie era and the 18th century, where I might hope to get a glimpse of Mr. Darcy...

What is your next project? Right now I’m working on a new adult contemporary romance, which I’m really excited about. It touches on some sensitive issues, but that’s all part of the journey.

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